


take one bite now

by hipgrab (merrymegtargaryen)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Do not repost, F/M, but sometimes you can let the rich eat you out, in the spirit of the 2020 oscars, rey says 'eat the rich'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22885201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/pseuds/hipgrab
Summary: Based on that article that suggested the best time to rob celebrities is during the Oscars because they'll all be there. Or will they?
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo
Comments: 59
Kudos: 305





	take one bite now

**Author's Note:**

> I saw an article right after the Oscars that said the best time to rob a celebrity was during the Oscars because they'll all be at the awards show, and it got the cogs turning. 
> 
> Huge thank you, as always, to alittlerunaway for looking this over and assuring me it's not garbage <3
> 
> Enjoy! (And don't take it too seriously lol)

It should be a simple enough job. She has plenty of time, and the house isn’t too big. Get in, take what she can, get out. It’ll be easier than some jobs. She just has to hope there aren’t hidden security measures she didn’t account for.

Rey’s been robbing houses since she was six. She has her foster father to thank for that. He’d used her innocent face to get past suspicious neighbors and her small body to sneak in places adults wouldn’t be able to. She’d gotten in through basement windows and dog flaps and no one had been the wiser.

When she’d gotten older, she’d started doing it on her own. The bigger she got, the harder it was to fit into those tight spaces anymore, but she had more strength, which was good. She also got smarter. By the time she was thirteen, she’d found a way to steal from Unkar, and most of the time, he never even noticed.

One time he  _ had _ noticed, though, and she’d been sent to some juvenile correctional program. They’d scared the shit out of her, and she swore to herself she’d never steal again.

That had only lasted a few years.

It doesn’t really matter, she tries to convince herself. She only steals from rich people. They have thousands of dollars worth of electronics and tacky art pieces, they can stand to lose a few hundred here and there. They’re probably insured, anyway, so it’s not even like she’s doing that much damage. 

She tries to be a good person, she really does. She works thirty hours a week at Target, she works with a babysitting agency on evenings and her days off, and she drives for Grubhub when she has time to kill. But it’s never enough, and robbing one house will often provide more money than she makes in a month. 

So she doesn’t feel too bad about it.

She doesn’t feel bad at all now as she looks at her target’s picture on her phone. She’s followed one of his stan Twitter accounts, and they’ve been posting updates of him all day. 

She’s honestly impressed by the lengths these people go to. Despite his own lack of social media presence, they’ve somehow found his makeup artist’s instagram and posted her pictures of his hair and the tux he’s wearing. Rey hadn’t known where that was, exactly, and had waited in case that was his house. 

But she sees pictures and videos of him on the red carpet now, that surly expression on his face as he poses for pictures. So, he’s there, which means he’s not at home.

She’s already cased the joint, and she knows there’s a rental house down the road that’s currently unoccupied. Rey pulls in there, knowing that no one’s like to give her a second look. It’s a small stucco monstrosity that people only rent for the experience of staying on Mulholland Drive, not because it’s a pretty house. From there, she just has to walk through the woods. 

She hears the whiz of cars rounding the curve, but she’s deep enough in the trees that she doesn’t think they’ll really notice--most likely they’re tourists more focused on the view of the city than the wooded area along the roadside. 

The house is surrounded by a high fence, but that’s okay, because the trees have branches sturdy enough for Rey to climb up. She finds a good spot and drops down in the back yard, the grass softening her landing. She pauses for a moment, as she always does when she first enters a target’s property, but nothing happens. No alarms, no blinking lights, nothing. She’s good to go.

Relaxing, she straightens up and makes for the house, rolling her eyes when she sees the pool. The house itself is small for a celebrity house, and she wonders if there’s more to it than the old listing she was able to dig up showed. She walks up the back porch and gives the sliding glass door a small tug. It’s locked, which doesn’t surprise her. She takes a step back, licking her lips and assessing the situation. He probably has people who have keys, but he also probably has keys hidden somewhere. Maybe there’s a spot where he leaves keys for assistants and agents. Maybe he’s like most Americans and leaves a key under a flower pot or rock in case he gets locked out or a neighbor needs to check things out. 

She walks around the house, keeping an eye out both for cameras and for rocks and flower pots. She doesn’t find anything. That’s okay. She can pick a lock, or break a window, if need be--

She stares at the Land Rover.

There, clipped to the visor, is a garage door opener.

Is it too much to hope?

She reaches for the driver’s side door...and is elated when it opens. Sliding into the seat, she reaches up for the visor, pushing the button to open the garage door.

It opens.

Thrilled with her luck, she gets out of the car and enters the garage. It seems to be used mostly for storage, though the percussion kit in the corner does not fail to attract her notice. Interesting.

The door into the house is also unlocked, much to her glee. She closes the garage door and slips inside, taking off her shoes so as not to leave behind debris. Rich people are obsessed with shoeless households, she’s noticed, and they’d  _ definitely _ notice if her tennis shoes left a mark.

The house is painfully minimalist and tidy, and she bets a housekeeper comes in to take care of it. Rolling her eyes, she pokes around the kitchen, which is as immaculately white as the rest of the house. It looks painfully impersonable, almost like a model kitchen in an IKEA; the drawers are full of standard silverware and kitchen appliances, and even the magnets on the fridge are just small black circles. There isn’t even a whiteboard or a fun bottle opener. Even the shot glasses are part of a plain, matching set. Shot glasses! Which are notoriously vacation memorabilia! 

“Fucking sociopath probably,” she mutters, moving on. 

The living room has a normal-sized TV, which is very humble of him. No surround sound entertainment center, no at-home movie theater, just a plain DVD player and a Roku.

She does some snooping and finds an extensive DVD collection, most of them older films. None of them are his own movies, which she finds interesting, but not enough to stop her search.

There are three bedrooms in the house, and they’re all so bare that it takes her a moment to realize one of them is the one he inhabits. Like much of the house, the master bedroom looks like a Zillow ad; the room is devoid of personal objects, the bed is immaculately made, and the only sign of habitation is an ajar closet door, in which she finds very plain, very boring shirts, pants, and shoes. 

Sometimes people keep their valuables in an underwear or sock drawer, so she goes rifling through his drawers...but all she finds are t-shirts, underwear, and socks folded to spark joy. 

Normally, she’d start to get anxious by now, but she knows that he’ll be at the Oscars for hours yet to come, so she takes her time snooping. His bathroom is the first place she starts to see signs of human life; short black hairs in and around the sink indicate he’s shaved recently, and the toilet seat is up. Water droplets on the shower’s glass walls tell her that he’s showered recently, and several bottles inside tell her that he takes care of his hair. 

_ Of course he does. _

Giving up on the bathroom and bedroom, she wanders back out to the hall. There’s no art on the walls, which is where she’d normally look next, because sometimes people keep safes behind paintings. Not this guy, apparently.

She examines the home gym more out of curiosity than because she thinks it actually has anything. There’s a punching bag which looks battered and well-used, and a few other sleeker, modern machines with so many settings she doesn’t understand how they help you work out.

A library gives her a little more hope. Because she has the time, she looks through nearly every book, hoping some of them are hollow inside or have bills tucked into the pages, but no such look. 

“Where do you keep your money, you rich fuck?” she mutters, idly picking up an ugly round paperweight.

The shelf slides back, and she realizes that the fucker has a hidden room.

“Jesus  _ Christ, _ ” she whispers, walking into what can only be his office.

Now,  _ this _ room looks lived in. There are locked file cabinets and against one wall and a desktop setup against the other. Piles of papers are stacked beside the desk, some of them in binders, and four different chargers spring from an outlet. So, this is where he goes when he isn’t entertaining guests, hiding away in his study.

Plush carpet gives way beneath her feet, inviting her into the room. Like much of the house, the room itself is pretty sparse, but its disorganization reassures her that the person who lives here is an actual person and not some robot they trot out for red carpet events. 

She’s so lost in her exploration that the slamming of a door takes her by surprise.

She freezes, hand on a file cabinet labeled “2010-2015”. That was definitely a door, but which one?

There’s a pause, and then, a voice.

“Is someone...here?”

She holds her breath. Shit, shit,  _ shit. _ She left her shoes and bag by the garage door, he must have seen. She hasn’t been caught on a job since she was a kid, and she’d been cute enough to worm her way out of it. What is she supposed to do now?

Maybe she can get the secret bookshelf closed. If it’s closed, he wouldn’t think to look for her, would he? 

But before she can reach the door, she hears heavy footfalls down the hall, and then he’s standing in the doorway to the library and staring straight at her.

It’s him.

Ben Solo.

It comes as something of a relief that he doesn’t look particularly angry. Just...confused.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, not moving.

She tries to speak and finds she can’t, so she shakes her head instead.

“Are you...trying to rob my house?”

She shakes her head again, for all the good that does her now.

He takes a step into the library, and god, he’s  _ huge. _ She’d known that, theoretically, but seeing a person’s red carpet photos and actually staring at them in person are two very different things. He could snap her neck if he wanted to. God, why didn’t she bring a  _ knife? _

_ Because the charge is always worse if you have a weapon. _

“What are you doing here?” he asks, still coming forward, and she stumbles back a step. 

“Stop!” she shouts, petrified, and to her surprise and relief, he does. 

She clenches and unclenches her hands, never having felt so confused or afraid in her life. “I didn’t take anything,” she says, and she hates how quavery her voice sounds. 

He frowns. “Are you...a stalker or something?”

Irritation flares through her. “ _ No! _ I’m not a stalker! Jesus Christ, I came here to rob you because you’re rich, not because I’m trying to crawl up your dick or something.” She winces. “Fuck. I’m...yes, okay, I’m here to rob you, but I haven’t taken anything yet, so maybe you can just...let me go?”

He stares at her for a long moment. “Do you hate my character or something?”

She huffs in irritation. This is the stupidest robbery she’s ever started. “No! It has nothing to do with you or your movies! You were just an easy target.”

“An easy target?”

“I…” How does she even explain this to him? “I work for Grubhub. My friend who works with me was your driver once. He told me where you live. And I knew you’d be at the Oscars, and Mulholland Drive is kind of remote, I mean relatively speaking…”

“That’s why I chose it,” he says wryly. “You really just want money? This isn’t...some personal vendetta or--”

“For  _ fuck’s sake, _ I don’t give a  _ shit _ who you are or what movies you’ve been in!” she snaps. “You could be literally anyone, it doesn’t matter! I’m fucking poor and you’re not and that’s why I targeted you!”

He stares at her for a long moment...and then he comes into the office.

She backs up, remembering to be afraid again. He keeps walking, and she’s sure he’s going to snap her neck, but then he walks past her and towards the desk. He opens a drawer, pulls out a ring of tiny gold keys, and then moves to the filing cabinets. She watches in disbelief as he unlocks the topmost drawer...and withdraws a stack of cash.

“What are you doing?” she demands, somehow even more afraid now than she was before. 

He holds out the stack. It’s from a bank, she can tell from the paper around it and the crisp way it’s held together. That would pay all her bills and leave plenty left over. 

Surely this has  _ got _ to be a trap.

“What are you doing?” she asks, backing away.

“You came here to take money. So take it.” He holds it out to her. 

But she shakes her head, edging away. “No. Nononono. I’m not falling for that.”

“It’s not a trick,” he says with mild exasperation. “Just take it.”

“Why?” She hates how high-pitched her voice is. “So you can call the cops and tell them I broke in and stole your money?”

He lowers his arm. “No. I wouldn’t do that.”

“No?”

“You’re right,” he says patiently. “You’re poor and I’m rich. I don’t need this money. So take it. It’s probably more than you’ll ever make working for Grubhub.”

He’s right, and she hates that. 

“This isn’t a trap,” he says again, gentler now. “I’m one hundred percent serious.” He sets the stack down on his desk and backs away. “I’m going to go change out of this tux now. You can take it or leave it, it doesn’t make a difference to me.” And with that, he turns and leaves her in the room, alone with the stack of cash and the open drawer.

She stands there, frozen, for a long moment. But curiosity eventually gets the better of her, and she creeps over to the drawer, peering inside.

There’s so much cash it makes her sick. What does anyone need with this much money? Where did it all  _ come _ from? And what does Ben Solo plan to use it for?

She could take all of it. He wouldn’t stop her. He left the drawer open for her, didn’t he? She could take all this money and never look back. She could buy a house on Mulholland Drive with a pool and a fence…

Instead, she walks out of the room, empty-handed.

She waits in the doorway to the library, fiddling with the sleeves of her hoodie to keep from shaking. When he comes out of his room, he’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and he could be just some guy. Not a celebrity, not a famous actor, not a millionaire. Just a guy named Ben.

“What’s your deal?” she asks rudely.

He walks past her towards the kitchen. Huffing, she trots after him.

“Seriously,” she insists, leaning against his kitchen island as he opens the fridge and tosses things on the counter--bread, cheese, butter, ham. Is he making a sandwich?

And, yep, he’s bending down now to pull out a pan, which he puts on the horrendously modern stovetop. 

“I’m making a ham and cheese sandwich, you want one?”

“Yes,” she says before she can stop herself, and then something occurs to her. “Why aren’t you, you know, at the Oscars?”

He doesn’t look at her as he puts a healthy chunk of butter in the pan. “I have anxiety.”

She stares at him. “Seriously?”

“Unfortunately.” He swirls the pan around, coating it with melting butter. “I can’t watch myself on film. It’s...a weird thing I have. A phobia. My assistant always makes sure I’m warned ahead of time.” He takes slices of bread out of the bag, slathering them with butter too. “But she didn’t know this time. They just...played it in the opening. And I freaked out, and ran out of the fucking Oscars like a five year who thought they were gonna see  _ Finding Nemo _ and ended up watching  _ Saw _ .”

Is Rey actually starting to pity him? Surely,  _ surely _ not. 

“Weren’t you like, nominated for an award or something?”

“You really aren’t a stan.” He spreads mustard on two slices and them puts the sandwiches together, whole wheat bread with far too much ham and cheese stuffed in the middle. “I’m not up for an Oscar this year. Thank god. But when your entire family are Hollywood royalty and you’ve starred in one of the most successful blockbusters known to the western world, attendance is mandatory.”

Rey props her chin in her hands, watching him. “Isn’t running out of the Oscars bad form?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe now you won’t be invited back.”

He actually smiles a little. “Yeah. Maybe.”

She rolls her shoulders. “How do you feel now?”

“I don’t know. I’m hungry.” He looks up at her. “Get plates for me? Next to the sink.”

Oddly, wordlessly, she does, moving around the island and reaching into the cabinet for two plain white ceramic plates. She sets them on the counter, and then goes to the sink to grab paper towels for napkins.

“Thank you,” he says politely.

“You’re welcome,” she says by reflex, and winces at herself.

When the bread is crispy and golden and glistening, he uses his spatula to slide a sandwich on each plate. He hands her one and sits beside her at the island, comically big for the tiny stool. He eats with an unconcerned air, chewing slowly and staring at the countertop. 

It’s good, the sandwich. Better than the grilled cheese sandwiches she tries to make at home. 

“Damn,” she says appreciatively.

“Thank you.”

She spins on her stool, taking in the house. She’s probably getting crumbs everywhere, but she doesn’t care. Somehow, she doesn’t think Ben will, either. 

“What made you want to buy this house?”

“It was remote,” he says bluntly. “I wanted to be away from other people.”

“Well, you picked a good spot.”

“I know. The view is pretty amazing, too. It makes me not hate this place so much.”

“Hollywood?”

He nods, too busy chewing to speak. 

“Why don’t you move to New York?”

“Not a stage actor,” he says, waiting until he’s swallowed to speak. He’s polite, whereas Rey talks with her mouth full all the time. “There’s not a lot of film work out of New York. I’d have to come here all the time anyway, so I thought...might as well get a house here.”

“That makes sense,” she offers politely.

“What about you?”

She huffs around a bite of her sandwich, spraying crumbs everywhere. “What about me?”

“You’re not from LA. Why did you move here?”

She shrugs, always hating this part of a conversation. “It was just...a place I’d always wanted to go to when I was younger.”

“Most people feel that way.”

“The fuck do you know about  _ most people? _ You have an assistant who warns you when something will trigger an anxiety attack.”

He ducks his head. “Okay, fair point. I guess...my impression is that a lot of people come here because it was an idea they had. Did you want to act?”

“No. Shocker, right? Young woman in Los Angeles, must be an actor.”

“It is unusual,” he agrees. “So what was the draw?”

“Have you ever been to England?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know it has the gloomiest weather. Grey skies, constant threat of rain. Everything’s always a bit damp. A mild day here is considered a heat wave there.”

“And that doesn’t agree with you?” he asks with a small smile.

“Nope. I love the sun, and the warmth. I love how dry it is. I love being able to go to the beach on the coldest day of the year. There are  _ palm _ trees here, and there’s always something...happening somewhere. What?” she asks suddenly, for he’s grinning at her.

“Nothing, I just...I guess I’ve never met someone who came to LA for the climate,” he admits. “I’m still hungry, do you want another?”

“Yes,” she says at once. He takes her empty plate and goes back to the stove, starting two more sandwiches. “If you could live anywhere, where would you?”

He considers that, turning on the burner. “Lake Tahoe, probably.”

“Lake Tahoe?” she asks skeptically. “Just...a lake?”

“I like lakes,” he says defensively. 

“Not beaches?”

“I  _ hate _ beaches. I hate...beach culture, you know? And I hate sand. I like lakes. There so much quieter. Calmer. I’d like a cabin on the water with a private dock.”

She considers this. “That sounds very lonely.”

He shrugs. “I’m lonely here, why not be lonely somewhere that doesn’t give me a headache?” Her scoff must be audible, because he glances at her. “What?”

“Nothing, just...how are you lonely? You’re one of the most famous actors in America.”

“That doesn’t mean I have friends,” he says quietly. 

“You mean you’re not constantly going to Brad Pitt’s raging house parties and getting high with fucking...the cast of  _ Frozen _ ?”

“Does Brad Pitt even throw raging house parties?”

“ _ Well _ ?”

“It’s not...glamorous like that,” he sighs, tossing the sandwiches into the pan. “It’s just a job, and other actors are just...other people who do the same job as you. Sometimes you like them, sometimes you don’t, but at the end of the day, it’s work. Sometimes they’ll invite you to things, but I always say no.”

“Why?”

“A few reasons. Number one, I have anxiety. Number two, I like for people to know as little about me as possible.”

“Unless they’re trying to rob you.”

“Number three,” he continues as if he hadn’t heard her, “I’ve known too many...Hollywood people my whole life. They’re all the same.” He pushes the sandwiches around with the spatula. “They’re either trying to be someone they’re not, or they think they’re different from everyone who’s ever worked in this industry, but they’re a dime a dozen.”

Rey considers that. “So you don’t have any friends at all?”

“I don’t have a lot of close friends,” he amends.

“Why don’t you get a dog?”

“I had a dog.” His voice is heavy. “He died a few months ago and I just...haven’t had the heart to go to the shelter and get a new dog.”

“Oh.” Now  _ she _ feels sad. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

They’re quiet for a moment, the only sound the sizzle of the butter in the pan.

“Have you ever robbed any other celebrities?” he asks at last.

She winces. “No. Just...people I was aware of. Personally, I mean.”

“Why’s that?”

She shrugs, getting up to take a glass out of the cabinet and fill it with water. “Well, it’s easier if you know them in some capacity. You know, like, if you know your way around their house and what their routine is.”

“So you typically rob people you know?”

“Not, like, my friends. But...people I’ve worked for before...yeah.” She takes a thoughtful sip. “Neighbors. My foster dad made me steal from his tenants.”

Ben looks up at her sharply. “He  _ made _ you?”

“He was a piece of shit,” she says cheerfully. “And it was easy for me to steal from them because he knew the apartments better than anyone.”

Ben shakes his head, turning back to the stove. “That’s…”

“Difficult to relate to?” she finishes in the same cheerful voice. “Yeah. I know.”

He considers this, sliding the sandwiches onto the plates. “Your friend who delivered here...does he...know about your...colorful background?”

“No,” she admits, and flushes. “I can’t...tell people about it. Even my friends.” She shuffles her feet, not meeting his eye. “Look, I don’t...I’m not a robber.”

“No?” he asks in disbelief.

“I rob houses but I don’t...it’s not my life.” There’s a pleading note in her tone she doesn’t like. “This is just temporary. I don’t want to be like this forever.” Her voice cracks. “But I don’t know what else to do. I work three jobs and it’s never  _ enough. _ There’s always another bill, or my car breaks down and I have to get it repaired, or I get sick and need Tamiflu, and every time I think, okay, I made good tips, I worked another shift, I’ll be okay, something else happens and I can just never stay on  _ top _ .” She wipes her eyes furiously. “I stole from a woman I was babysitting for. I was starving and my power had gone out and I didn’t know what else to do. I swiped a hundred dollars from her purse and I felt  _ terrible, _ I couldn’t sleep until I saw her again the next week. She never said a word. In fact, she had me watch the kids while she took her  _ weekly _ trip to get a massage.” She wipes her eyes again, hating how fast and hard the tears are coming. “It’s not  _ fair.” _

“You’re right,” he says softly. “It’s not.” When she scoffs, he continues, “No, really. It’s not. You had...a childhood I can’t even begin to fathom. The most...inappropriate thing my parents ever did was let me steer the wheel of my dad’s car when I was eight, and only in the driveway. Your foster father made you steal from his own tenants. I get paid thousands of dollars to stand on a piece of tape and say things. You work three jobs and it’s not even cutting it.” His voice breaks a little. “I have no idea what your life is like.” He huffs out a laugh. “I don’t even know your name.”

She huffs out a laugh of her own. “It’s Rey.”

“Rey.” He tests it out. “Is that...British?”

“Yeah, it’s British for ‘my parents were high when they named me.’ That’s not a joke, they were literally junkies.” She wipes her eyes again and reaches for her sandwich, shoving it in her mouth. “More fun facts from my charmed life.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds as if he means it.

“Don’t be. At least I learned a nifty life skill like stealing instead of using.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.” He considers her over the top of his sandwich. “How did you get in here, anyway?”

“Garage door. Your Land Rover was unlocked, so I used the garage door opener to get in. The door to the house was unlocked.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re either a professional or I’m a fucking moron.”

“It’s a happy combination of both. Speaking of, I saw your drum set out there. Do you play?”

He smiles. “Sometimes. If I’m angry.”

“Are you angry now?”

“No.”

“Too bad; I wanted to hear you play.”

“I can’t play,” he admits sheepishly. “I just sort of...hit things.”

“Ah. So you’re like Animal the Muppet.”

“Except he can actually play,” Ben points out. “He gets excited about banging drums, sure, but he knows what he’s doing.”

“You probably know what you’re doing.”

His eyes glint. “You wanna bet?”

Which is how she finds herself out in the garage, watching him pick up drumsticks, give them an experimental twirl, and strike an enormous, percussive sound from the drum in front of him. It’s so loud she can feel it vibrate up from her toes and into her head, but she likes it. She likes how unabashedly loud it is, how much noise and space and emotion it takes up. 

He strikes new sounds each time, new claps of thunder rolling over the small space of the garage. Rey feels oddly loose and relaxed when he finishes, as if the noise has shaken all the anger and sadness and fear from her. 

“Do you wanna try?” he asks, and she nods, taking the drumsticks from him. She sits on the stool, then scoots it forward because  _ Jesus _ he’s tall, and then lightly taps a drumstick against a drum. It makes a deep, steady sound; heartened, she taps a little harder, and then uses both drumsticks to pound out a rhythm. She tries this drum and that, even hitting the cymbal with a brass crash that sends a thrill down her spine.

It only takes a few minutes before she loses herself completely, crashing out a cacophony of sound that makes no sense but is begging to be unleashed. She hits the drums again and again, and when her arms get tired and she finally comes down from her high, she realizes she’s flushed and panting.

Ben is watching her with an expression she can’t quite fathom. Sheepishly, she gets up, handing him the drumsticks. 

“That was...fun,” she says breathlessly. 

“It’s good stress relief.” He puts away the drumsticks and leads her back into the house. 

“And what’s the punching bag for?”

“When drumming doesn’t work.”

“And what’s the pool for?”

“Decoration.”

She huffs. “Are you seriously telling me you never swim in that pool?”

“Not  _ never. _ ”

“Jesus Christ.”

“It’s sixty degrees!” he protests as she makes for the sliding glass doors. 

“A balmy day in England.” She unlocks the doors and slides them open. “You know, I tried the back door first, but it was locked.”

“I’m not a complete moron,” he says, following her.

“No, just a little bit of one. Do you keep spare keys hidden on your property?”

“If I did, do you think I’d tell you?”

“Yes,” she says bluntly, still making for the pool. She pulls off her socks and rolls up her pants, hopping onto the ledge and dipping her feet in the water. The water is cold, but she doesn’t mind. 

“Jesus, woman,” he mutters, and fiddles with something on the wall. 

“What are you doing?”

“Heating the pool so you don’t get hypothermia.”

“You have a  _ heated pool? _ ”

“The last owner installed it,” he mumbles, loping towards her. To her delight, he also rolls up his pants and plunks his feet in the water, hissing at the temperature.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she chastises, swinging her feet in the water.

“It’s cold.”

“It’s LA.” She watches the water distort her feet. “Why don’t you like swimming?”

“I don’t like taking my clothes off.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Well.”

“I don’t,” he insists. 

“Weren’t you shirtless in your movie? Wasn’t it like a meme?”

“Unfortunately,” he says broodily. “But I didn’t like doing that either. Everyone and their mother has seen my nipples now.”

Rey bursts into giggles.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I just...you said nipples.”

“You think that’s a funny word? Nipples?”

She laughs so hard she doubles over, unable to help it. 

Ben rolls his eyes. “Okay.”

“It’s a funny word! And you say it so seriously.”

“How else does one say nipple?”

She tries to hide another giggle. “I mean, people don’t really  _ say _ it to begin with, you know?”

“Well, I just did.”

“And as we’ve established, you’re not like most people.”

“True,” he concedes. 

She swings her feet, enjoying the water even more now that the heater is kicking in. Her toes break the surface of the water, small splashes breaking the silent night air. 

“Why didn’t you call the cops on me?” she asks conversationally. “Or threaten me or...something?”

“I didn’t want to,” he says simply. “Mostly I was confused, and then I was just...relieved you weren’t trying to wear my skin or something.”

She snorts. “Have a lot of those?”

“Just a few. But I’ll give you this, none of them have managed to find my house.”

“That you know of,” she says in a mock-dark tone. 

“Thanks for that.”

“Maybe I’m planning to wear your skin before the night is over.” She reaches over, pinching the skin of his forearm and feeling an electric jolt at how  _ solid _ he is. 

“Oh yeah?” he shoots back, reaching over to do the same.

“Don’t--” she starts to say, but he’s already got the sleeve of her hoodie pulled up.

The pool lights are soft, and he might not have seen them otherwise, but she can tell by the way he freezes up that he felt the ridges running up and down her forearm. She bites her lip, anguish filling her as she sees him stare at her arm.

“Are these…?”

“You have drums,” she says quietly. “I had razor blades.”

He blows out a breath. “Jesus, Rey, I’m...I’m so sorry.”

“Stop saying that. Please.” She yanks her arm away, pulling up her sleeve. “I don’t want to hear how you’re sorry anymore.”

“I’m s--okay.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, and Rey is positive that the night is ruined. Not that it was going  _ well _ to begin with, but now it’s definitely going downhill. 

“Are you freaked out by me?” she can’t help asking.

“No,” he says firmly. 

“Are you sure? Because you got really quiet, and I can’t help but feel like maybe you’re questioning the sanity of the girl who broke into your house and--”

“Rey,” he interrupts, and she shuts up. “I want to show you something.” He gets to his feet, pulling Rey to hers. The night air is admittedly chilly against her wet feet and shins, but she follows him wordlessly to the corner of the house, where he uses a large decorative boulder to hoist himself up onto the roof. Before she can scoff, he holds out his hand, pulling her up and onto the roof with him.

“Careful,” he says, following the lines of the roof up and to the center of the house. She follows slowly, hands out to either side to balance her, staring at her feet so she doesn’t slip and fall. He eases himself onto the crest of the roof and then holds out his hands, helping her sit beside him. Only then does she look up.

She’s seen Los Angeles from Mulholland Drive before; every tourist and newbie has. But she’s never seen it like  _ this. _

The City of Angels is spread out before her, a billion tiny pinpricks of light converging to form one beautiful, glowing work of art. In the far distance, she can see the skyscrapers downtown, and laid out before them is a grid of buildings, houses, streetlights, and cars. 

“Sometimes,” Ben says softly, “when I get anxious or overwhelmed, I come up here...and everything feels like it might be okay. The city is just so...small and quiet from up here.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, in awe of the beautiful scene before her. “It...it really is.”

They sit in silence for a long moment, but it doesn’t feel stilted or awkward. She feels like she’s exactly where she was supposed to be.

Suddenly everything feels smaller. Making rent. Paying bills. What she’s doing with her life. Breaking into a stranger’s house and falling a little bit in love with him. She’s filled with peace and purpose. All she has to do is sit here.

It takes her a long moment to realize that Ben is staring at her. She looks over, flushing. “What?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens, it, and closes it again.

“Would it be weird,” he finally says, “if I kissed you right now?”

The question takes her aback. She considers.

“Well...yes. But,” she hastens to add, seeing his face fall, “what  _ isn’t _ weird about this whole...situation?”

“So...should I?”

“You definitely should.”

He leans forward, slow and uncertain. She closes the gap between them, swooping forward and pressing her lips to his.

His kiss is like everything else about him: soft, shy, and sweet. He lets her take the lead, opening his mouth when her tongue probes his lips, licking her tongue and cradling her head. She shifts to face him so that her neck won’t hurt, but she forgets she’s on a roof and flails for a moment, gripping his shirt with clenched, frightened fingers.

“Maybe this isn’t the best place for it,” he says sheepishly. “I just thought…”

“It was a good thought,” she assures him. “Very romantic. I’m just clumsy.”

“You’re not--”

She kisses him again. “Maybe we could go...somewhere else?” she suggests, trying not to let her nerves show.

“Somewhere else could be good,” he says quickly. 

They walk down the slanting line of the roof and hop down from the eaves; once on the grass, Ben reaches for her, bending down to kiss her. 

Rey is not a short woman, but Ben makes her feel impossibly tiny. His enormous hands engulf her waist, and even when his head is tipped down towards her, she has to crane her neck to reach him. She wraps her arms around his neck, rising up on her toes to better reach him. His movements become surer, more eager, and when he backs Rey against the wall of his house, she goes without complaint, squealing in surprise when he reaches down to lift her. Legs locked around his waist, she kisses him hungrily, devouring his lips and jaw and neck while her fingers run through that  _ insanely _ nice hair of his.

A growing bulge presses against her center, one she politely tries to ignore at first...but as the kiss deepens and they both become a little more eager, she can’t help but become aware of it. She rolls her hips, grinning when he groans in response.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, but she bites his lip and rolls her hips again.

“Don’t be.”

He shudders, growing even harder, and Rey knows there’s no polite pretending it didn’t happen now. 

“Do,” he starts to ask, “do you...want to…? We don’t have to, of course, I can just--”

“I want to,” she says, and the way he scrapes his teeth against her throat has her toes curling. “But,” she adds, and he stops, looking at her with wide eyes. “But...I’m not on any birth control, so we have to use a condom.”

His face falls.

“Is that a problem?”

“Only sort of.” He sets her down, and she feels distinctly unhappy at the loss of contact. “I don’t have any.”

“Oh.” She considers him. “Well, we could just...do other things? I’m clean.”

“So am I. Okay. Okay, yeah, we can...be creative.”

Creative. Yes, Rey would like to get creative with him...but truthfully, she’d like to ride what feels like a generous-sized dick, too. 

_ Another time, _ she thinks, and then laughs at the absurdity of  _ another time. _

“What is it?” he asks defensively, pausing in the doorway.

She shakes her head, grinning. “Nothing, I just...this wasn’t how I was expecting this night to go.”

His face relaxes. “You and me both.” He takes her hand, pulling her inside and into his living room. 

With a playfulness she didn’t know she had in her, Rey pushes him onto the couch and clambers into his lap, straddling him as she kisses him deeply. His hands settle at her waist, and when she grinds down on his erection, he squeezes her with a pant. 

“Is this okay?” she asks breathlessly, rubbing her center against the bulge in his jeans. 

“Fuck...yeah. Yes,” he says just as breathlessly, hands kneading her bottom now. She likes the way he feels, and she uses the hands on his shoulders to anchor her, rubbing his cock until she’s warm and wet. “Fuck, I haven’t...I haven’t dry humped since I was a teenager.”

“I never understood why it was called dry humping,” she admits, now swirling her hips in a circle that draws a delirious groan from him. “Because I’m  _ very _ wet.”

He groans again, hips thrusting lightly against her. “Can I...un...can I feel?”

She’s already unbuttoning her pants; she grabs his hand and slides it past the waistband of her underwear, letting out a shuddering breath as his long fingers touch the folds of her center. He pushes a little further and they both groan when he makes contact with the wet mess between her legs.

“This is...fucking  _ Christ. _ ” He touches her carefully, exploring every piece of her, and then gently pushing the tip of his finger inside her.

Her hips buck as she buries her face in his shoulder, gasping like someone who’s never been touched before. He gives her another careful probe and she rocks herself onto his finger, begging him to go deeper. Slowly, carefully, he pushes his finger all the way inside her.

“Your fingers are fucking  _ huge, _ ” she gasps, biting down on his shoulder when he crooks his finger.

“You’re so small,” he marvels. 

She rocks her hips again, whining. He pumps his finger in and out until she reaches down and urges him to put a second finger inside her. Her own fingers barely satisfy her, short and thin as they are, but his are long and thick and they fill her exquisitely. She rides his fingers, panting and moaning as she gets closer and closer; all it takes is the tilts of her hips and him hitting her  _ right there _ before she’s toppling over the edge, crying out into his neck as she clenches around his fingers.

They’re quiet for a long moment save for their heavy breathing. When he finally slips his hand free of her, he licks her from his fingers and it’s so indecent she feels a threatening flutter between her legs. 

She tamps down on that feeling, crawling off his lap and sliding down onto the floor.

“Rey?” he asks, voice cracking when she reaches for his zipper. 

“Is this okay?” she asks softly, unzipping him.

He nods quickly. “Yes. Fuck. Yes.”

She’s glad, because she’s been desperate to see this dick ever since she first felt it. She pulls down the waistband of his Calvin Kleins, reaching in and gasping when her hand makes contact with…

Well.

A  _ behemoth. _

It’s definitely the biggest dick she’s ever seen in real life, and bigger than some of the porn stars she’s seen, too. She’s never really found dicks aesthetically pleasing before, preferring to let them work their magic on her without having to look at them, but she cannot deny the  _ beauty _ of this one. She wants to jump vagina-first on this thing and ride it until she can’t walk anymore.

But he doesn’t have a condom and she’s not stupid enough to have unprotected sex, so she settles for holding it in her hand and licking a long stripe from balls to head. 

Ben spasms, his hips jerking forward and his hands gripping the couch cushions like a lifeline. Rey licks him again, smiling when she sees what a  _ wreck _ she’s made of him. She swirls her tongue over the head of his cock, licking off the salty precum and humming in contemplation. 

“Jesus,” he whispers, and she takes him in her mouth.

He’s so big that she can’t take him fully, not without choking on the goddamn thing. Instead, she licks and sucks as much as she can take, using her hand to grip his base, squeezing in tandem. 

“Fuck,” he says, over and over, and she takes it as a very high compliment.

When his balls start to tighten, she releases him with a pop, wiping her mouth. “Ben?”

“Yes?” He looks at her with frenzied eyes, looking so blissed out she almost hates that she stopped.

“Can you do me a favor and cum on my tits?”

He sucks in a breath. “Yeah,” he says in disbelief. “Yeah, I can...definitely do that.”

“I just don’t like the way it feels in my mouth,” she admits shyly, already shrugging off her hoodie. He watches as she pulls off her shirt and reaches around to unhook her bra, sliding it down her arms. When she takes him in her mouth again, he seems unable to tear his eyes from her, hands gripping the couch as she licks and sucks and gives him, personally, the best blowjob she’s ever given before.

He tells her when he’s close, his voice strained, and she releases him with a  _ pop, _ her hands pulling his cock until he spills all over her chest. 

She pretends not to notice when he trembles slightly; instead, she gets up and goes to the kitchen, wetting paper towels and wiping herself clean. She means to go back to the couch, but he pins her against the counter and kisses her in what she imagines is gratitude.

“That was incredible,” he says earnestly. 

She smiles. “I’m glad.” 

“I’d like to return the favor.”

“Well,” she says, pretending to think about it. “If you insist.” 

He helps her out of her pants and underwear, tossing both to the side before he sets her on the kitchen island.

“You eat here,” she protests, but only halfheartedly.

“Yeah?” he returns, looking up at her. “What do you think I’m doing?”

And before she can say anything else, he leans forward and plants a chaste kiss on her.

She doesn’t know why she finds that so fucking hot, except that she does. She watches as he licks her up down before he slides his tongue inside her. Now it’s her turn to shudder, but he wraps enormous hands around her hips, anchoring her in place as he explores her center. 

And, look, Rey’s been eaten out before, but never like this. Never by someone who  _ drinks her up _ like she’s an oasis in a desert. She would feel powerful if she wasn’t so fucking lightheaded, drunk and dizzy on the way his tongue feels inside her. She grips his hair with what must be a painful intensity, but he never flinches or complains, just buries his face between her legs like it’s a rare treat he’s been allowed. 

When he sucks her clit between his teeth and pushes two fingers inside her, she’s a goner. She comes with a leg-shaking orgasm, sobbing his name. 

“Fuck,” he says, and stands up to kiss her hungrily. She kisses back, licking herself from him.

“Rey,” he groans, “I want...I want to be inside you.”

“No,” she slurs, shaking her head weakly. “Not without a condom.”

“What if I could get us condoms?”

She considers. “How?”

“I can have them brought here. Just...if I could...would you want to?”

“Yes,” she says at once. 

He kisses her again. “Wait here.”

She watches through hazy eyes as he disappears down the hall and into his bedroom. She can hear him talking to someone, and tired of sitting on the counter, she eases off, padding to his room.

“I know it’s been a PR nightmare for you,” he’s saying, pacing up and down his room. “And I’m sorry, but I--” 

A burst of noise from the other line silences him. He rubs his forehead.

“Phas, I understand that, but--”

More noise, which Rey realizes now is probably the other person yelling.

“Well, no one told me they were going to play a clip,” he says testily. Another burst of yelling. “Fine, if you won’t do it, I’ll go to the fucking CVS myself, and then not only will the tabloids be about me walking out of the Oscars, but they’ll have pictures of me walking into CVS with a raging hard-on. Perez Hilton will love that, I’m sure.”

There’s a long pause before a clipped affirmation. Ben puts down the phone, smiling sheepishly when he sees Rey standing in his doorway. 

“My assistant,” he explains. “She’s...not happy with me right now.”

“Because you walked out?”

“Yeah. I guess she’s had to do a lot of...damage control.”

He’s starting to brood, so she walks over to him, reaching up to brush her lips against his jaw. “How should we pass the time?”

.

It takes forty-five minutes for Ben’s assistant to grab condoms from CVS and bring them to him, and in those forty-five minutes, he does nothing but eat out Rey. 

She doesn’t know what she did to deserve this. Certainly not attempted robbery. Is there some catch, she wonders? Some red flag she’s missed?

She can’t think about it too hard because his mouth is doing the most distracting things to her and there’s no room left in her head for what she does and does not deserve. There is only Ben Solo and that tongue that was made for her cunt.

His head is so secure between her legs that he doesn’t hear his own phone going off; Rey is the one who has to sit up and half heartedly push him away. 

“Your phone,” she slurs, blissed out from several orgasms that have left her devoid of all but one braincell. 

He wipes his hand on the sheets before accepting the call from Phasma. He wipes his mouth, too, sitting up to answer. 

“Hi.”

“I’m outside,” Rey can hear the other woman say in a crisp English accent. “Figured I’d give you fair warning to make yourself decent.”

“I appreciate it, Phas,” he says earnestly. “Be right there.” He ends the call, caressing Rey’s knee. “Don’t move. Please,” he adds, blushing slightly.

God, how is he  _ single? _

Rey flops back on the bed, listening as Ben leaves the house and goes outside. He comes back a few minutes later, a box of magnums in his hand. 

“Does your assistant know the size of your dong?” Rey asks in interest. 

He flushes. “I’ve had to do some...weird photoshoots before.”

“Really now? Maybe I should’ve looked harder at your stan Twitter…”

“You are  _ killing _ the mood right now.”

“Me saying I want to look at your penis is killing the mood?”

He considers her. “Well…”

She laughs. “Just get over here and fuck me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, fairly  _ leaping _ onto the bed as he tears open the box. She gets up on her knees, helping him out of his clothes, and then she’s pushing him back onto the bed, taking him in her mouth until he’s fully hard. She takes a condom and rolls it onto him with nimble fingers, and then she’s straddling his hips and looking expectantly at him.

The moment is so much  _ heavier _ than she thought it would be. She’d been so ready to fuck him senseless when she’d first felt him, and she still is, but now…

He’s trembling ever so slightly beneath her, eyes wide as he looks up at her. She wonders what he’s thinking.

“Ready?” she asks breathlessly.

He nods vehemently. “Yes. Are you?”

“Yes.” Taking a deep breath, she lowers herself onto him.

He’s so  _ big. _ Even after eating her out and making her come as many times as he did, she finds herself gasping at how big he is, her body stretching to make room. Has she ever been filled this way before? If she has, she can’t remember.

“Rey,” he chokes. “Are you...fuck...are you okay?”

He’s still trembling, she can feel it, but even now his only concern is for her. 

“Fine,” she breathes. “Just...adjusting.” She waits until she’s fully seated, and when she feels ready, she lifts her hips and sinks back down his length. 

Ben is clearly trying his hardest to hold still, lying rigid on the bed as she rocks her hips. She kisses his chest and neck, licking the sweat off him, and when she begins rocking in earnest, putting his hands on her, he comes to life, fingers curling around her hips as he thrusts into her. 

.

It doesn’t last long. Really, it’s almost embarrassingly quick, how close they both are and how little it takes. She doesn’t mind, because feeling Ben come while his cock is inside her is  _ exquisite. _ She watches his lips form her name, feels his hands tighten around her hips, and then she’s the one coming, back arched and head thrown back as her hips move of their own accord.

.

The cleanup is always her least favorite part because it feel awkward and clumsy, but she likes the awkwardness and clumsiness this time. She passes him toilet paper from his toilet, where she’s making her usual post-coital tinkle, and it feels so normal and domestic that she can’t help smile. 

“You know what I could go for right now?” she asks.

“No, what?”

“A grilled cheese.”

He grins at her, leaning over to kiss her even though she’s currently peeing on his toilet. “You’re insatiable, you know that?”

“You complaining?”

“Not a bit.”

.

He does make them grilled cheese, and they eat them while sprawled on Ben’s couch and watching a Western that his dad was in. They all feel like the same generic Western with the same generic hero, but Rey can see why men like her foster father liked them so much. She even catches Ben watching with a goofy expression on his face, mouthing along to some of the lines. 

“You probably get asked this a lot, but...did you always want to be an actor?” she asks, licking her fingers clean.

“It wasn’t even about wanting, it was just...what I knew I was going to do. My parents were actors. My mother’s parents were actors. I couldn’t suddenly become an accountant.”

“You could’ve.”

“I could’ve,” he agrees. “But it would’ve been a letdown.”

“To your parents?”

“To my parents. To the whole world. The grandson of Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala, son of Han Solo and Leia Organa...an accountant.”

“Could be worse,” she says cheerfully. “Could be a house thief.”

“Could be,” he says with a smile, and then slides off the couch and onto his knees.

“What are you doing?” she asks even as she lets him widen her legs.

“Having dessert.”

She opens her mouth to tell him to never say that again, but the words get lost on a gasp.

.

She wakes once in the warm cradle of his body, his lips on her forehead. She can feel his hardness pressing against her leg, and she rolls onto her back and spreads her legs easily.

“Rey,” he whispers in a strained voice. Her eyes are barely open, but she guides him with her hands and hips until he’s inside her once again. He rocks into her slowly and sweetly, smothering her in kisses. No sooner has he tied off the condom than she’s drifting asleep again, warm and content.

.

When she wakes again, it’s to the smell of something warm being made in the kitchen. Always motivated by food, Rey gets out of bed (Ben’s bed, and an absolute mess) and treats herself to a quick shower, sampling some of his hair and body products before toweling off and stealing a t-shirt from his drawer.

Ben is at the kitchen island when she goes out to join him, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt while he flips pancakes over a griddle. He smiles at her, coming around the island to kiss her forehead. 

“Do you want coffee?”

“Please.” 

He hands her a mug, which is still mostly hot, and goes back to loading up a plate with pancakes. There are chocolate chip, blueberry, and a combination of both; when she looks curiously at him, he ducks his head and mutters, “I wasn’t sure which one you’d prefer.”

Rey takes a little of all three when he’s finished, slathering them in butter and syrup. Yet as she sits down in front of her heaping plate, she finds that she is miraculously not hungry.

“What?” he asks, glancing at her.

She hesitates. “What...happens now?”

It’s a question she ought to have asked last night, one that both of them seemed to avoid. They had their fun. They talked. They ate grilled cheese. They watched the city from his roof. They kissed. They fucked. And now it’s a new day, and they both have lives to get back to. But does that means going their separate ways, or…?

He sets down his knife and fork. “Well...what...do you  _ want _ to happen?”

She blinks up at him. “What do  _ you _ want to happen?”

“Nuh-uh, I asked you first.”

She opens her mouth to argue and then shuts it, knowing better. “Well...I kind of assumed you’d come to your senses at some point and boot me to the curb.”

“I would never do that.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Ben, I literally came here to rob you.”

“Haven’t we been over this?” he asks with mild exasperation. “Take my money, I don’t give a shit.”

She turns to fully face him. “Okay, here’s the thing with that. Say I take your money and we...continue seeing each other. There is always going to be a power imbalance because of that. I’d always feel like I owed you something. Even if it is no strings attached, it wouldn’t feel that way to me.” 

His eyes search hers. “Is that what you want? To continue seeing each other?”

She flushes. “Well...I thought....maybe if you weren’t...opposed…”

“I’m not opposed. At all. I’d very much like to see you again.”

She sighs, half in relief and half in exasperation. “Then you see why I can’t take money from you. I’m not just some girlfriend you shove money at to make her happy.”

He considers this, stroking her knee. “But I hate the thought of you struggling when I can make that go away. I’d be a shitty boyfriend if I was living on fucking Mulholland Drive and going to the Oscars while my girlfriend can barely afford to feed herself.”

“Don’t worry about me, I have a successful burgling career, remember?”

“I don’t know how I feel about you burgling other houses--what if you try to rob Brad Pitt and he’s just as forgiving as I am?”

“Then guess I’ve found a new boyfriend.”

He pinches her knee and she smiles.

“But seriously,” he insists. “How am I supposed to let you go back to your life while I’m living mine?”

She considers his question. “I don’t know,” she admits at last. “But maybe we could talk about it more over dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“You know. Like a date.”

His lips quirk. “Sure.”

Her shoulders sag in relief. “Good. So let’s agree not to talk about it anymore until then.”

He hesitates. “Well...okay.”

Satisfied, she turns back to her heaping pile of pancakes. 

“When you say dinner,” he says after a moment, cutting his own pancakes with painstaking precision, “when exactly did you mean?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one with the busy schedule. I don’t know what awards shows you’re planning on running out of when.”

He props his chin in his hand, looking at her. “Tonight too soon?”

She smiles. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to appear overeager?”

“Yes,” he says bluntly. “It never took.”

She kisses him. “Keep feeding me and I’ll never leave.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She smiles, taking an enormous bite of pancakes. Robbing this house was probably the best decision she ever made. 


End file.
